Not Quite Dead (A NightHunter Novel) Page 7

  "No." He moved closer to her, pulling her into the shield of his body.

  Something flashed in his hand, and she saw that he was holding a knife against his thigh. It looked like an ancient weapon, with runes carved in the blade and on the handle. There was a black stone embedded at the end of the handle, and it was glistening even though it was dark out. It almost looked like it was glowing with a faint green light...and so did the blade? Frowning, she looked closer, and she saw that there were shadows undulating in the blade, as if it were alive. Her heart started to hammer. "Eric, what is that?"

  "Listen."

  The edge to his voice made her stiffen, and she looked around again. The dirt road was empty, disappearing on the far side into thick woods and marsh. The shadows loomed dark and menacing, just like they had when she was a kid. Suddenly, memories of the monsters that lived in the bayou came flooding back, and she shut her eyes, cutting off the visual distractions.

  For a moment, she concentrated on the feel of Eric's fingers on her elbow, using his touch to ground herself. His grip was light and warm, but solid. She could hear his breathing, and he was so close she could feel the heat rising from his body as he used it to shield her from the night.

  Trusting him to keep her safe, she let her focus drift from fear and from him. She allowed her mind to reach out into the dark night. The noises of the swamp seemed to swell, pressing down upon her. The splash of a gator as it slipped into the water. The anguished scream of a mouse as it met its demise. The low hoot of an owl.

  And then she heard a sound that made the hair on her arms stand up. A low growl, so faint that it almost blended in with the swamp. A menacing, terrifying sound she hadn't heard since she was a child running from her nightmares. She'd never heard it in real life, but it slithered over her with chilling familiarity. "Oh, my God," she whispered.

  "You hear it?"

  "Yes." Again, the menacing growl. It was distant, but if she could hear it, maybe it could hear her, too. Her heart started to pound, and a memory flashed through her mind, a memory that she hadn't had to face for so long, but there was no doubt in her mind what she'd heard. Her stomach turned, and her eyes sprang open. "We need to get out of here. Now!"

  Eric didn't move. He was staring into the woods, his face grim. "That's the sound I heard in the swamp before that woman screamed."

  "You heard the scream? Oh, God." She tore herself out of his grasp and raced down the stairs. "Come on!" She was halfway to her rental car, when Eric caught up.

  "My truck," he said.

  "But—"

  "I need my stuff. Come on!" He pulled her toward a massive black pickup truck parked near the door, ten times the size of her subcompact rental car, and so much more capable of handling the swamp.

  "Okay." She raced beside Eric, barely even noticing the high heels that had been killing her feet only moments before he'd walked into the bar. He unlocked the truck remotely, and she flung herself in the driver's side, scrambling across his seat while he leapt in behind her.

  He gunned the engine. Dirt sprayed up from the tires as the truck flew backward. Then he jammed it into drive, and it sprang forward.

  "Turn right," she said, leaning forward, her hands clenching the dashboard as she searched the road ahead of them. White mist was drifting across the road, smoky tendrils that undulated as if they were alive. "The mist," she whispered, dread gripping her more tightly. "I didn't even think of it."

  "Think of what?"

  "The mist." She searched desperately ahead of them, praying that she wouldn't see a shadow flit across their path. "Most of the time, it's just innocuous fog, but sometimes, it's more. It hasn't been more for a really long time." Was that what David had wanted to talk to her about? What had he noticed? Of course he wouldn't have wanted to talk about it in front of Eric, an outsider. Who would believe the stories that coated this region? Even she didn't want to believe them, but she knew better. Her grandmother, Oba, had told her too much for her not to believe it.

  "What do you mean, more?" The fog grew thicker, winding around the truck until they could barely see the road. Eric slowed the truck, his headlights reflecting uselessly off the water droplets coating the air.

  "Don't slow down," she said urgently.

  "I can't see—"

  "I don't care! You have to keep going!"

  Swearing under his breath, Eric obeyed. The truck hurtled onward, the tires spinning ruthlessly on the slippery dirt. Jordyn held her breath, her gaze riveted to the fog closing around them. "We have to get to my house. I mean, the house I grew up in." Even the words sent a chill racing through her. She didn't want to go back there. Ever. But there were things there that she needed, things that had been gathering dust for decades, things that her grandmother had warned her she would need someday.

  She didn't want to need them.

  "What the hell is going on?" Eric's flirty arrogance was gone, replaced by the steely focus of a man on high alert. "What was that thing growling?"

  "I don't know for sure," she hedged.

  He glanced over at her. "What do you think it was?"

  She bit her lip, not even wanting to talk about it. No one in this town would ever talk about it. "Around here, people think it's bad luck to talk about it," she said.

  "Talk about what?"

  She sighed. "Evil." She waited for him to laugh or snort in derision.

  He didn't. He simply nodded grimly. "What kind of evil?" He asked the question as if he knew. "A vampire? It was a vampire, wasn't it?"

  "Vampire?" She looked out the window into the dark. "No, not a vampire. One particular vampire. Le Cicatrice. It means the one with the scar. For over four hundred years, he ravaged the area. He drained mostly young girls, and left them for dead. People started sending their daughters away to live with relatives. Then, the boys started disappearing...and then coming back as vampires. Nighttime became a time of terror..." She looked over at him. "Until he found a way to come out in the daylight. Then the real horrors began."

  Tension flashed across Eric's face. "He's dead?"

  "Yes." She looked out the window. "But my grandmother always said he wasn't really dead. She said that there are some vampires you can't ever kill. I used to hear that growl in my dreams, and my grandmother said he was trying to find an anchor to bring him back. He knew my name, and would whisper it to me. She always told me to wake up when I heard it, to take my mind back before he could own it." She hugged herself, still watching the fog. "I still don't sleep well," she said. "I'm afraid of sleep." Even in Walter's arms, she hadn't slept well. As powerful as Walter had been, the ancient vampire was something more evil, more powerful, and more terrifying. "The mist forms because the earth is disturbed by his presence." She bit her lip. "He can't be back," she whispered. "He can't be—" But even as she said it, a sudden, horrifying thought occurred to her.

  She looked sharply at Eric, whose hands were tight around the steering wheel. "Could Tristan resurrect him?"

  "I would have said no."

  Oh, God. That wasn't the answer she'd been hoping for. "Except—"

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and flicked to an image. "I found this burial site," he said. "Tristan was there, and I think he resurrected whatever was in the grave."

  She took the phone and studied the picture. With growing dread, she flipped through the images, until she came to the last one, a carving that was so battered it was barely recognizable...except that she knew what it was. The jagged tear. The sharp incisors. The drip of blood. "It's the sign of Cicatrice," she said. "It's the ward that one of the ancient voodoo queens created to protect against him." She looked up. "This headstone marks his grave, Eric."

  "It's empty now. I checked it carefully."

  "Oh, God." She sank back against the seat, holding her breath as the fog began to thin. A respite. A chance to recover. Not that it really mattered, because if Cicatrice was really hunting in the bayou again, there was nowhere safe. Not for anyone, but especially not for her.


  "If Tristan resurrected him, what would he do to Tristan?" Eric asked.

  She looked over at him. She didn't want to say it. But there was no way around it. "He'd turn him," she said thickly. "Tristan's ability to resurrect the dead would be a powerful asset. A lot of vampires were killed in this area at the time of Cicatrice's death. A reunion would probably be a great time for them." Numbly, she noticed they were coming up to a turn they needed to make. "Make a right up ahead," she said.

  Eric swung the truck around the corner, the tires churning relentlessly on the gravel-covered road. "If Tristan has been converted, will he be evil? Can we save him?"

  She looked out the window at the dark swamp as the trees flashed by. "My grandmother said there was always a chance."

  "To bring him back from being a vampire?"

  "No. He'll always be a vampire." God, Tristan, a vampire? She prayed they weren't too late. "But if his will is strong enough, he can fight the evil and hold onto his humanity, as long as he gets an anchor to hold him."

  "What kind of anchor?"

  She shook her head. "An emotional anchor. Someone he loves. Someone so pure and good, that they can help him fight it off."

  Eric looked over at her. "He loves you."

  "No." She hugged herself. "We're just friends."

  "He resurrected you eight times. How much did it cost him?"

  She thought back to how Tristan had been the last time she'd seen him. His face had been gaunt and gray. His hair had lost its luster, and he'd lost so much weight he'd looked like he was on the verge of death. "Almost his life," she said quietly.

  "How long had you been dead?"

  "Three days, the first time he did it. He came after me. He said he'd felt my death, and he came after me, but it took a few days to get there. After that, he pulled me back within minutes of my death each time."

  Eric hit the brakes so hard that the truck skidded across the dirt before it stopped. "He felt your death?"

  "That's what he said."

  Eric swore under his breath and leaned his head back against the seat. "What are you doing, Tristan?" He muttered. "What the hell were you doing?"

  "What?"

  He looked over at her, as he started driving again. "The only way he could feel your death is if he connected the two of you on a metaphysical level. He bound you to him, Jordyn, which means your lives are intertwined. If he dies, you hold him in this life. If you die, he holds you in this life. He made you his anchor. Shit. No wonder he worked so hard to save you. He needed you alive."

  "No." Jordyn felt sick, as if there was a noose tightening around her throat. "We were friends. He saved me because we were friends. He wouldn't have trapped me like that." She couldn't be bound to another man. Not to Tristan. She'd trusted Walter, and he'd trapped her against her will. She'd trusted Tristan as well. "Why would he do that? It doesn't make sense."

  Eric looked over at her, his face grim. "By using you as an anchor, whenever he drains himself too much doing a resurrection, he pulls on your life force. If he continues to resurrect people, he will drain you until you die."

  She stared at him, her mind swiftly going back to the times over the last year when she hadn't felt well, or had been too tired to drag herself out of bed. No, that hadn't been from Tristan. It was just the ups and down of life, right? "No, he wouldn't—"

  Eric slammed his fist into the steering wheel. "No, the brother I know wouldn't have done that, not without a damned good reason." He hit the gas, and the truck sped forward. "I'm going to find out what it is."

  Jordyn sank back against the seat, her heart thundering in her chest as she gripped the door handle. Another man had trapped her? Tristan had saved her life. She trusted him. And he'd bound himself to her forever? "If he's been turned by Cicatrice and is working for him now—"

  "He'll be resurrecting a lot of old vampires, I'm guessing." He didn't state the obvious, but they both knew it.

  If Tristan was getting busy raising the dead, it would cost him. She could be dead within days. Hours, even, depending on how much Tristan drained her. A cold fear shivered down her spine. "We have to stop him. Cicatrice. Tristan. All of it." No longer was it about saving Tristan. If he were a vampire who had been co-opted by Cicatrice, there was no salvation for him. She had to kill him. It was the only way to end it. If he was working for Cicatrice, she had no choice. Tristan had to be stopped.

  Kill the man who'd given her life, eight times?

  How could she do that?

  Why would he save her life at great cost to himself, only to then prey on her until she died? It didn't make sense that he'd saved her so he could siphon her life away. "Couldn't he have connected with someone else instead of me, if I'd died?"

  "Technically, yes, but it wouldn't be easy. As long as you're alive, his ties are to you."

  A chill flickered down her spine. "As long as I'm alive?"

  "Yeah."

  Oh, God. She didn't like the sound of that. "If he's working for Cicatrice, we have to kill him," she said quietly. "He won't be able to resist Cicatrice, and he's too powerful in his own right. He'll resurrect all the old vampires, the ones that are so dangerous."

  Eric's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "We can't kill him."

  Jordyn pulled her knees up to her chest. "I don't want to either. God, I don't want to. But we can't let him do this. We can't let him unleash that horror onto my town again." Her town? The possessive pronoun had tumbled instinctively from her lips, even though she'd rebelled so completely against the life she'd once had here. It was a place of nightmares and loss, but at the same time, her roots were here. Her grandmother, David, and even a few friends. She thought briefly of the blond-haired Skylar Morgan, who used to hide in the woods with Jordyn when her own dad became too violent. Skye had moved after several years, but they'd carved their initials into a tree in the swamp, forever declaring themselves sisters of the heart. This town was her past, and it had helped define her. The thought of it being torn apart by vampires made her feel sick, as if the loss of it would rip out what little foundation still supported her.

  "Tristan isn't just my brother," Eric said grimly, drawing her attention back to the discussion. "He's my twin, and our spirits are intertwined." He looked over at her. "If he dies, then I die as well. We can't live without each other."

  Horror congealed in her belly. "What?"

  "As for him turning vampire..." Grimly, he ran his finger over his teeth, as if checking for fangs. "I don't know what that will do to me." He looked over at her. "We need to find him, and fast."

  ***

  The silence in the truck spoke louder than words about the gravity of their situation.

  Jordyn had fallen quiet after Eric's revelation that he would die if Tristan did. What else was there to say? If Tristan were a vampire, or even if he was simply under Cicatrice's control and resurrecting ancient vampires, she needed Tristan dead to free herself, and her town. He, on the other hand, needed Tristan alive. A conflict with no happy medium, unless they were lucky enough to discover Tristan was actually on vacation in the Caribbean. If that were the case, they could just focus on Cicatrice and call it a day…but yeah, the odds of that happening weren't looking too good.

  "Go left here. This is the driveway." She glanced over at him. "Maybe he's not a vampire. Maybe he hasn't been taken over by Cicatrice."

  "Yeah, maybe." He'd seen the gravesite, and he recognized his brother's work. The likelihood of a happy ending wasn't too promising. Grimly, he turned on his blinker and then swung into the rutted, dirt driveway.

  The moment his tires crunched on the gravel, Jordyn tensed beside him. He glanced over at her, and saw that her face was pale. She was leaning forward, staring through the windshield, her fingers wrapped tightly around the door handle. She was biting her lower lip, and her eyes were wide as she frantically scanned the property.

  He was no fool. Jordyn was scared, and he didn't like that. Scowling, his adrenaline surged, and he drew in
energy from the air, preparing to do whatever it took to protect her. The magic swirled through him, otherworldly energy gifting him with its power, even as it sought to find a way to penetrate his defenses.

  "There it is," she whispered.

  Eric followed her gaze, then slowed the truck as his headlights illuminated a ramshackle cabin with broken windows and a boarded-up door. A rusted tin roof looked like it was ready to slide off at any moment, and the yard looked like a cemetery where used-up vehicles went to die. The shanty was on the edge of the swamp. His headlights were reflecting off the stagnant water and the reeds that guarded its shoreline. It was a place of misery and doom.

  He eased the truck to a stop, but left the engine idling as he turned his bright lights on the shanty. A small rodent scurried out of sight behind a tire, but there was no other movement. "What is this place?"

  "It's where I grew up."

  Eric whistled softly as Jordyn opened the door and stepped out. He couldn't believe this confident, sassy woman had come from such hell. How had she dragged herself out of this beginning to become a woman strong enough to take down one of the most powerful Calydons of this century, and then survive the severing of the sheva bond? He'd been impressed with her since the first moment they'd met, but now? Shit. She was good. Really good.

  "No wonder you're a survivor," he said. "Looks like a tough place for a kid."

  She glanced over at him, surprise in her eyes. "It was worse when my father was alive. Now it's just an empty house."

  "An empty house with memories. Don't underestimate the power of the past. It can choke the life out of you when you least expect it."

  She cocked her head. "You say that like you've lived it."

  He managed a cheeky grin. "Sweetheart, doesn't everyone have a skeleton in their closet?"